


Misconduct

by Anonymous



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, BDSM, Dom/sub, Multi, Power Imbalance, Punishment, Second person POV, She/her pronouns reader, Spanking, Threesome, Underage - Freeform, but no description of afab body parts, dubcon, protagonist is sixteen, teacher/student relationship, there is skirt and panties though, you could probably just find and replace the pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26812921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Logan is your math teacher.  Patton is the school counselor. They decide some one on one intervention is necessary given your recent misbehavior.  Or, some two on one intervention, as it were.  By the end they'll have you promising to be very good indeed.
Relationships: Logan Sanders/Patton Sanders/You, Logan Sanders/You, Logan Sanders/You/Patton Sanders, Patton Sanders/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

You aren’t sure how you got here. Actually, that’s a lie. You know exactly how you got here, but when Professor Crofter had told the teaching assistant to watch the class while he accompanied you for a chat in the counselor’s office, you hadn’t really expected anything to come of it. A call home, maybe, or another pink slip to go in your growing collection. Maybe suspension, at the extreme.

Certainly you hadn’t imagined the sort of “behavioral intervention” Professor Crofter actually had planned.

The school counselor had opened the door with the sort of cheerful smile on his face that, on most people, would seem forced, but his genial demeanor stayed enthusiastic as he waved you and your impromptu escort slash warden into the office.

“I’m so glad you could make it! I’ve been looking forward to this appointment all day.”

“Are the pleasantries necessary?” the professor asked from behind you, with the sort of long standing exasperation of someone who had been through such a conversation many times before.

“You know that they are, Logan. When you want my help you have to put up with my methods, no matter how unconventional you find them.”

“I suppose I can’t argue their effectiveness.”

“Call me Patton,” the counselor introduced himself merrily. “You already know Logan.”

“I prefer to maintain a certain level of formality with my pupils, Patton.”

“Don’t you think that under the circumstances a little familiarity might make her more comfortable?” Patton chided, at which the professor sighed.

“I suppose, for the duration of this lesson, and strictly outside of classes thereafter, you may refer to me as  _ Mister _ Crofter.”

It was funny to you, at the time. The seemingly arbitrary change from one formal title to another. It was hardly casual. You would learn, of course, that it very much was not meant to be. Mister, after all, is only one little letter away from Master. A title you suspect that he would be much more inclined to answer to should circumstances ever allow.

“Contingent on certain improvements to your behavior, of course.” He added.

“Alrighty,” Patton said, opening up a bright yellow folder with only one paper inside. He slid it across his oaken desk and gestured for you to take it. You eye the plush seats in front of his desk as you pass them, but forego sitting down while the adults in the room are standing. You prefer to feel as if you’re on even ground for the coming lecture.

“Do you recognise this form?” Patton asks, his smile now gentle. It’s a piece of paper from your years in gradeschool, a clumsy scrawl that was one of your first attempts at cursive on a dotted line at the bottom next to your parents’ signatures.

The line that had been meant for you at the time was in bold, blocky letters. Small words made up the pseudo-agreement, aimed as it was at early readers. You didn’t even realize that things like this were still in your file so many years later. You were practically fully grown now, after all, but the paper managed to be untouched by the years.

“I remember it,” you say, voice confused, because this cannot be going where you think it’s going.

“Teachers had permission to give spankings at school, when kids were bad.”

“ _ Have _ ,” Professor Crofter corrects sharply. “There is no upwards limit on that contract, and you are still a minor beholden to the legal authority of others. The lower and upper elementaries, as well as the middle and high school, all fall under the same guidelines. Everything in your file transfers up when you do.”

“You’re kidding,” you insist. “You’re not going to  _ spank _ me!”

“Well, we’re running out of options, kiddo.”

“You can just suspend me like normal people!”

Patton’s face turns sympathetic.

“I’m afraid not. With finals coming up, any suspension will cut directly into testing time. Your conduct grade is already bringing your average down. If you don’t complete every portion of the tests you likely won’t pass the year.”

“I  _ what? _ ”

“We don’t want that to happen,” the counselor assured.

“However our choices were indeed limited. I had no intention of doing anything beyond my usual protocols, but Patton insists that you have the potential to change.”

“Yes,” you say quickly, hoping the threat was empty and this ordeal can be over with, point made. That doesn’t happen.

“For that to happen, of course, some sort of punishment must first be administered.”

“How many?” you ask reflexively, and then regret it because that makes it sound like you’re  _ agreeing _ to this outlandish idea. But then again, with the other option being summer school… Aren’t you? It’s just a spanking. A quick punishment taking advantage of some convenient loophole to assuage your professors need for following protocol, and then you can forget the whole thing ever happened. It probably wouldn’t even hurt. At most the whole thing would be something mildly embarrassing you could look back on and laugh at in a few years.

“An excellent question that is, ultimately, up to you to decide.”

“Huh?” comes your oh so elegant response, because that has to be a trap. It’s always a trap, when someone tells you to choose your own punishment. There’s an answer they  _ want _ , even when you have no idea what it could be. 

“Mr. Crofter is right, kiddo,” Patton chimes with extra emphasis on the ‘informalized’ title. “How bad it’ll be is up to you.”

Reflexively, your hands go to cover your rear. You don’t see it, but behind you Logan gives a satisfied smile. You can hear it in his voice when he says “That’s two more.”

Blocking the strikes always merited extra. So did backtalking the teacher, or refusing to count. The number started out with your grade plus your age. A misbehaving kindergartner got five strikes with the paddle. A first grader, seven or eight. Fourth grade marked the move to upper elementary and the end to paddlings. Or so you’d thought. 

Twenty-six. The number seemed dauntingly high, and that was before the two you’d just mistakenly added.

“Now, we don’t have a paddle,” Patton was saying, like you weren’t dizzy with the implications of the punishment before you. Like all of this was perfectly normal. “So we’ll have to make do, but we can find a spare ruler, I’m sure, unless you’d rather he use his hands.” 

You finally glance behind you at your professor, because at this point nothing could make your day any more surreal. He’s got the same look in his eyes he gets when presenting the class with a particularly tricky math problem. Your stomach sinks. That’s what the sensation under your belly button is, you tell yourself firmly. Dread, and nothing more. This is not titillating, no matter how attractive either of the men in the room might be.

‘ _ Can’t you do it?’ _ part of you wants to plead, but the bigger part of you is thrilled with how strict your professor has always been. Clear rules and clear consequences. A steady reliability to knowing what your choices would bring. Until today.  _ Until this _ .

“Bend over the chair,” Patton says clearly. “I’ll be supervising.” 

‘So nothing untoward will happen,’ he doesn’t say. Later you’ll realize exactly how telling that omission really was.


	2. Chapter 2

You’re surprised by how little the first one hurts. Through the material of your skirt there’s barely even a sting.

“One,” comes your voice clearly, and you wonder vaguely why you had even worried about this.

“Two” hits the same place with what on anyone besides your professor you know would be uncanny precision. You don’t know if the third swat is actually harder or if it’s just in your head.

“Three,” you say, but you wonder how your legs aren’t trembling. You can’t tell whether the emotion coursing through you is excitement or fear.

You get distracted and forget to count. Or maybe you’re just testing Mister Crofter’s word.

“Thirty-two,” Patton calls out, and the cheerfulness of his voice still doesn’t sound forced, but it’s sing-song tone now sounds threatening. Your stomach swoops at the disappearance of his pseudo camaraderie. He was just as much a member of the administration as your math teacher, but somehow you had almost forgotten whose side he was on.

“Four,” you correct yourself on the next hit of the ruler, again in the same place. You get all the way to six before your hands come up behind you.

“Thirty-four,” Patton tsks sympathetically. You place your hands resolutely on the seat cushion in front of you. A yelp escapes at the next strike.

“Seven!”

Eight comes immediately after, so quickly that you almost miss your cue to count. Mister Crofter abandons predictable rhythm, and changes the angle of his swing. Perpendicularly intersecting where he was hitting before, and at the center of that X you can imagine there will be a bruise.

Twice more you try to block the ruler, and twice more your total goes up.

Asking him to hit somewhere else feels weak, like giving up, and you don’t think that he would listen anyway. You’re at fifteen out of thirty-eight when suddenly Patton is crouching in front of you from the other side of the chair.

“Do you want some help? This will be over quicker if you stop moving so much, you know.”

“I don’t-” you start, but another swat hits, and you nod as you hiss “ _ sixteen _ ” through your teeth.

When he moves away you try to see where he’s going. You thought that he was going to hold your hands. Perhaps that’s a silly notion, but you’d liked having him close. Looking at him gave you a distraction from Mister Crofter. Maybe that’s why he’d moved.

“Ah, perfect!” you hear Patton exclaim, and he’s before you again, opening a box beads. “I don’t keep rope on hand,” he says conspiritally, like the potential scandal of him doing so is some shared secret between them. “Some of the more troubled students like making bracelets, though, and I always encourage channeling feelings through constructive mediums-”

“Patton,” the teacher interrupts sharply, impatiently waiting, paused between numbers at some nonverbal signal.

“This should do in a pinch,” Patton says, pulling out a long bundle of plastic cord. He tests its stretch, or perhaps it’s strength, and begins unravelling it merrilly.

“I don’t have any other colors, I keep meaning to pick up some variety.”

You swallow, mouth dry, because Patton is winding it around your wrists with a tellingly practiced ease, and when your arms are pulled straight out in front of you above your head by the tension he loops the cord around the left legs of the chair.

“That’s better, huh?” he quite rhetorically verifies, and then he’s in your peripheral vision in front of his desk again.

“You can continue now, Logan,” he calls from where he sits  _ presiding _ over the room. This whole thing, you recall, was his idea. You’re tied to a chair with  _ plasticord for friendship bracelets _ by the most cheerful man in the school, taking a spanking from your algebra teacher, and the giggle that escapes you is hysterical, because even if you hadn’t  _ agreed  _ to this, no one would ever believe you.

The giggle means you miss a number.

“Forty,” Patton tuts, sounding sternly disappointed. It’s the first mistake you’ve made that feels more like a failure than a choice. The part of you that was always reassured by Professor Crofter’s strict rules, the part that likes testing limits but not really pushing them, the part of you that relaxed when the knots were tied and  _ is enjoying this _ wants to do better.

“Sorry, Sirs.” You say. The next swat hits somewhere previously untouched. A reward.

“Seventeen,” you enunciate. It’s only forty. You’re almost halfway through.


	3. Chapter 3

By thirty-five your arms and legs are straining and your only focus is on the numbers and maintaining your breathing. Mister Crofter is petting your sore skin between sets of hits, and you’re too relieved by the breaks and soothing gesture to worry about the propriety of his hand on your ass. As far as you were concerned that hand was very welcome all over your ass and thighs. Nevermind that your skirt was flipped up to give said hand better access. He always put it back down before the ruler resumed it’s harsh strokes.

“You’d probably guessed, but I find such marks very aesthetically pleasing,” he says. The part of you that isn’t lazily blissful whispers that yes, that was at this point quite obvious. Your blood is humming and your teeth are buzzing. You didn’t know those parts could do those things, but you can’t be fussed to wonder about it. The burn of your pinkened skin has you hyper aware of even the lightest touch. “You’re doing quite impressively for your first time. Patton was right- With some encouragement you are remarkably well behaved.”

You would slur out a thank you, but aside from counting you seem to have lost your words. Your tongue is just in your mouth being a tongue, and isn’t that nice, that all of your body just sits there being where it is, and you don’t have to worry about any of it. You’re tied up so nicely that when your legs get tired you don’t even fall. Your arms are right there getting  _ pulled _ by the shiny cord around your wrists. It’s a very fun cord. It can hold all your weight when it needs too, and when the spanks start to sting too much, you can fight against the ties and the cinching at your wrists will be new and distract you.

Not completely, though. Not so much that when the professor folds your skirt back down you forget to say your number.

Numbers numbers numbers. Numbers for each pain, all the way to forty. You can make forty. You’re very good at this. Patton keeps telling you so. It’s so  _ nice _ to be good at this. None of the other things you usually think about seem to matter. They’re all very far away compared to-

“Thirty-eight,” you say, voice distant to your own ears. You’re breathing through your mouth.

“Are you crying?” Patton asks. The uptilt in his voice at the end doesn’t quite manage for the concern a part of you thinks he ought to be feigning. You suppose you are, and that’s why it’s so hard to breathe through your nose, and why your eyes have been leaking. 

It’s only a bit from the pain, though. Most of it is just relief. You feel as if you could stay here forever, even though you know you can’t. Eventually the pain in your arms will get worse, or one of you will have somewhere to be.

“Thirty-nine,” you count out, and now that it’s been pointed out to you the waver in your words is obvious. Your mouth turns down at that. You know that the numbers are your job. They’re important, and you need to do them well. Mr. Crofter is spanking, and Patton is supervising, and you’re  _ counting _ . 

“Thirty-nine,” you try again, and your voice is stronger, how you wanted it. The swats have been gentle, barely there paps since Patton pointed out that you were crying. You supposed that means that crying is doing good. You didn’t ask them to stop, after all. You’re taking your punishment and being good.


	4. Chapter 4

Being trapped was nice, but Patton is back and snipping the strings away now that the punishment is done. He combs a hand through your hair as he dabs your face with a tissue.

“That was beautiful,” he murmurs, “thank you for trusting us with that. I hope you’re feeling better now. The hard bit is over. Your punishment is all squared away, easy-peasy.”

Patton begins rubbing at your wrists where there are lines from the cord, massaging the marks and bending and unbending your fingers to help blood flow, bringing the ache of your arms into sharp relief. He looks behind you for a moment and stares in a way that you’re sure means something. You would be worried about that, except your brain is not yet working. You feel very fuzzy around the edges; like the whole world has gone soft. You wonder if perhaps this is what getting drunk is like. 

Your feel fingers at your hips, and your panties are eased down to your knees. You aim a pout up at Patton. You’re sure that’s crossing a line of some sort, but he just gives you a reassuring smile. Soothing coolness touches your inflamed skin, cream on the welts that you can tell have been made. 

“You performed quite admirably,” the professor says, kneading whatever magic lotion he’s using deeper. Your muscles are made of jelly. You wonder if the marks are really something worth looking at. They seem to be treating you like you’re fine art. Are you the piece or the performer? As the hands travel lower you realize that the spanking reached past the hem of your skirt. Before you can even think to worry, Mr. Crofter is commenting on how you’ll need the spare pants from the counselor’s closet, and that the change in wardrobe will be easily enough explained away by the skirt’s inappropriate length. 

Then you’re  _ scooped up into his arms _ and  _ being cradled _ , and he settles you both into the chair you had been bent over. Your panties fall the rest of the way to the floor in the move, and from the way Mister Crofter smoothly kicks them underneath the chair you’re in you suspect you won’t be getting them back before you leave the room.

“Would you prefer juice or water?” he asks, petting down your arms and front in long even sweeps. “Proper hydration is important, especially when one has been crying or exerting themself.”

You’re being cuddled, you suddenly realize. Patton pets Logan’s hair when he returns from the side of the room with the mini fridge, holding both the water and juice out to you and smiling sweetly. The edge to the expression is gone, or perhaps buried so deep you can no longer find it. You take the V-8 and the water is handed to Mr. Crofter. It should be more awkward than it is for him to accept it and then open and drink it whilst maneuvering around your place in his lap.

The drink is cool and sweet. Soon, you’ll put on the soft gray sweats Patton retrieved for you and go back to classes like nothing happened.

You can tell already that you won’t be able to sit for ages without being reminded that something definitely did.


End file.
